I'm writing to let you know that I've not yet received my invitation to your Royal Wedding. I imagine what happened is that you mailed it to my old P.O. box address instead of my street address and, well, you know how postal workers are in the colonies. But not to worry; I'll be there.

So... Kate and Wills... Wills and Kate... Funny, I once owned a Wilzengate electric piano, the kind with 93 keys instead of the standard 88 ("The Extra Keys Are There to Please," the ads used to say). I could hammer out a pretty mean version of "Puttin' On the Ritz" on that sucker. As a result, now whenever I hear "Wills and Kate," I automatically think of crackers... Sadly, my Wilzengate was destroyed when my steam-powered vibraphone exploded.

Speaking of pressure, how are you two holding up? So much to contend with: the press, the prenuptials, posing for postage stamps, Camilla. And if that weren't enough, now a retired U.S. Air Force officer is predicting there'll be UFOs at the wedding, because apparently aliens are almost as big on pageantry as they are on abducting our species for experimentation purposes. Hey, do you think they might abduct Prime Minister Harper while he's over there?

It must be awfully hard having your lives on display all the time. Not only that but now your fictionalized lives will be out there too, thanks to an American TV movie airing later this month. I can relate; my lovely and I once had a movie made about our courtship as well. Actually, it wasn't a movie; it was a TV show. Okay, it was a news report. Fine, it was a "Crime Stoppers" segment, but we certainly felt under the microscope. We can't even get anywhere near a jewelry store any more.

But enough about me. Let's talk about me attending your wedding.

As I said, my invitation hasn't arrived yet so I'll just take a crack at what I assume are some of the formalities: 1. One guest (my lovely); 2. Yes, we will need lodging at Buckingham, though we're more than willing to share a bath given the late notice; 3. We'll both have the salmon.

I sure hope it'll be open bar because I really don't want to bother messing with those silly Euros, although there is the tip to think about. Do you suppose I could get away with, "Don't moon the paparazzi"? No, probably not.

Don't worry about the seating at the wedding. We're comfortable on the groom's side or the bride's side, wherever there's room. Just as long as I can have a word with the Archbishop after the proceedings about my ideas for updating his image. (Hint: how does "Archbishop of CAN-erbury" sound to you?)

Do you want anything from Canada? I imagine Mr. Harper will be bringing the traditional Canadian gifts of pemmican and disgruntlement. But anything else? Cheese curds? Cold beer? A Native Canadian rug? Will, you look like you could use a rug, eh? Wait. Sorry. That's not what I meant. I meant "floor rug," not... you know... Oh, now I feel bald - BAD! I meant "bad."

I can't believe you two are finally getting married. Why, it seems like only yesterday I was sending you the first of what became an increasingly obsessive series of letters, postcards, paintings, knitted items and, of course, photos of my various Wills-and-Kate tattoos, including my favourite on the bottom of my foot. That's the one, you'll remember, I call "Kate Middle-Toe."

It's sad, in a way, that now I have to share you with the world. But your story, your love, your fairytale romance is too important to keep to yourselves. Now you belong to me and the BBC. And People. And the Internet. So much more important than that dreary Japan and Libya business.

I must be off. The snow has melted and there's a mess of a garden to take care of. In fact, my lovely tells me it could use a royal weeding (ha-ha!).

See you soon!

Ross

Ross Murray's collection, You're Not Going to Eat That, Are You?, is available in Quebec in area book stores and through www.townships.ca. He can be reached at ross_murray@sympatico.ca.